


if I look into it I'll forget all my memories of you

by renjutori



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Angst, Gen, Internal Conflict, Tokyo Ghoul Secret Santa 2014, and haise remembers, au from chapter 10 or so of :re and onwards, formerly a oneshot but now being continued when I feel the urge to write more, in which akira lies a lot and feels upset and conflicted, not akira/haise or akira/kaneki but if you like that ship feel free to read it that way, t for minor swears and violence that may escalate who knows?, tags will be added as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renjutori/pseuds/renjutori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tries to hate him. She fails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (:re)commence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done for [missaishu](missaishu.tumblr.com) for the 2014 Tokyo Ghoul Secret Santa. It’s gone through some tweaks since then, though, so if you’ve read this before you may find it a little different.
> 
> hmu at merrykirishimas on tumblr if you want to cry with me about tokyo ghoul, or just cry in general. I'm a total crybaby so chances are I'll be crying too
> 
> title is a translation of a lyric from seacret cm, a ling tosite sigure song, and you should definitely check them out if you like jrock or psychedelic rock! I highly recommend their just A moment and i'mperfect albums because they are an amazing, amazing band

 

* * *

 

 _In a blue breeze the coastline sways;_  
_If I look into it, it'll turn to night._  
_Look now, can you see something?_

 _The night colors dye the coastline;_  
_If I look into it I'll forget all my memories of you._  
_They'll dissolve in the night._

_"Look at me," someone says._

_I close my eyes, my breath stops and freezes,_  
_Because after a while you'll be gone._

_–Ling Tosite Sigure, “Seacret CM”_

 

* * *

 

“His name was Kaneki Ken,” Arima tells her, in the same voice he’d use to tell her it was raining outside. “Alias Centipede, or Eyepatch. A victim of Doctor Kanou’s ghoul-hybrid experimentation.”

Akira stares at the file in front of her; Kaneki Ken smiles back past the black lines stamped over his face. “And he doesn’t remember anything?”

“No,” Arima says, “And we intend to keep it that way.” He pauses, contemplative. “He wasn’t truly at fault for his actions. He could be a great asset to the CCG. With time and rehabilitation, perhaps he can live as a human again.”

She looks at the picture again, thinks about her father, about Amon, about Takizawa, and all the goodbyes she’s never managed to say.

He peers at her over his glasses, like Kaneki does from behind the word _erased_. “Do you think you can handle this?”

(She is Mado Akira. She is the valedictorian of her CCG Academy graduating class. She is her father’s daughter. She is strong. She is cold.)

“Sure,” she says, and it’s not quite a lie.

 

* * *

 

The countless flower arrangements in her apartment are wilting, petals crumbling to white dust. The floor has not been cleaned for several weeks.

(She is so, so tired. Tired of everyone’s sympathy, tired of the way Houji checks in on her, tired of the mechanical routine she’s found herself in.)

She stares out the window at the moon. Inhale. Exhale.

Why is it that Kaneki Ken, who ripped her life apart, gets a second chance, while she is left with nothing?

She is a child again, with no mother, no friends, only half of a father, and the age-old adage, _life isn’t fair_ , echoing through her head.

(She is Mado Akira. She is strong. She is cold.)

Maris Stella curls snugly against her, but she cries herself to sleep all the same.

(She is alone.)

 

* * *

 

She lays the flowers down carefully, like they’re glass that will shatter against the dull stone. She’s not sure why she bothers, because it’s stupid, this tradition of visiting their graves that she’s started. It’s not as if there’s anything beneath the drab grey headstones anyway.

She tells herself every time that this will be the last visit she makes, and yet, she shows up the next week, like clockwork, anyway.

What is it she’s seeking here? She’s not really sure anymore. Truth to be told, she hasn't been sure of anything for a long time.

 

* * *

 

“Good afternoon,” a voice stutters from behind her, one day, when she’s on another ~~useless~~ visit, and she peers at the newcomer from her peripheral vision, carefully noting the black roots of his white hair.

Ah. So this is what Arima meant, then.

He bows, deeply. It's fitting. “First Class Mado Akira, I’m Third Class Inspector Sasaki Haise. Please take good care of me.”

And so it begins.

 

* * *

 

He’s not quite what she expected, but she’s not entirely certain what she was expecting, anyway.

(What _can_ she expect, really, from the suspected murderer of the three men who meant the most to her? It’s not like this is typical, like there’s protocol in her old Academy textbook or a standard socially-acceptable reaction for this kind of thing that she can search for late at night on the Internet, computer screen light flickering on her face as she digs through advice columns and forums.)

He’s good company; she hates to admit it. In less than a month they fall into an easy rapport, and she wonders if this counts as fraternization.

 _“Non-combative or investigative interaction by Investigators with enemies, especially the aiding and abetting of ghouls, is a serious, prosecutable offense. Sentences range from court-mandated retraining to life imprisonment”_ read her old notes, carefully copied down.

Well, she hasn’t been prosecuted yet and protocol seems to have been blown to shreds in the curious case of Kaneki Ken and Sasaki Haise, so she thinks she shouldn’t be so inclined to care anymore.

She envies him, a little. He has nothing close to remembrance of his past, no painful memories that flare up and settle in his chest like lead. He doesn’t wake suddenly in the middle of the night, suffocating, like there is a heavy stone on top of him and he is sinking, sinking into the sea.

(Even if he had memories though, she wonders if he’d feel that way. Do ghouls feel? Do half-ghouls?

She should leave these questions to Division Two, though, because _where_ , exactly, has empathy ever gotten her?)

She pointedly doesn't think about the fact that the happy memories he may have had are gone now as well.

It’s better off this way, she thinks, that he’s happy here and can make an attempt at human existence, and then she reminds herself that his happiness is inconsequential to her, that it is merely her job to keep him in line.

Sometimes, at night, she wonders if there are people who miss him. If, somehow, he misses anyone, noticing some days that there is an odd, empty feeling in his chest, like a piece of the puzzle has vanished.

 

* * *

 

They’re eating at her favorite ramen shop one day, and his eyebrows raise briefly at her choice of dish.

“You like your food mild?” he asks.

She shrugs, food lifted halfway to her mouth. “I guess so. Why?”

“You seemed like someone who would prefer it spicy is all.” He twirls his chopsticks with his fingers like a child. The absence of the dish he did not order leaves a gap between them, and Akira doesn't mind its presence.

Gaps remind her; gaps keep her focused.

 _(I used to_ , she wants to say.)

The seconds tick by, and he stares at her, expecting an answer.

“I'm not," she says finally, flatly. "I'm not that kind of person." She takes a measured slurp of her noodles.

What's unsaid is: _that was a long time ago_. 

His chopsticks still. “I see,” he responds.

He doesn’t ask her any more questions, after that.

 

* * *

 

“Does that naan _resonaant_ with your taste buds?”

She laughs. It’s a full, genuine laugh, and, she’s sure, the first one in a while. “I think you’re in need of some retraining.”

She’s not becoming fond of him.

Not at all.

 

* * *

 

Standing on the roof of the building, cold concrete underfoot, is like waking up for the first time in a while. She shouldn’t have expected things to last as long as they did. It’s what she deserves for becoming so comfortable, so complacent.

 _This is what happens,_ she thinks to herself, not quite bitterly, _this is what always happens._

“Akira.” Hirako’s voice sounds in her ear. His tone is careful, and she hates it, hates him, hates that everyone has treated her like glass since the raid.

“Leave it to me,” she says, in monotone. She raises the rifle and aims carefully (when is she not careful?), one eye closed.

“Take a rest for a while,” she murmurs. And then she pulls the trigger.

 

* * *

 

“Try thinking your situation through slowly,” she tells him calmly, as if she isn’t the one who just shot him. Compartmentalization is her strong suit, after all.

His breath is ragged, and he glances upwards as if in search of something. “I am… investigating Torso. As the mentor of the Quinx.”

It seems there’s hope for him yet. “And who are you?”

“I am,” he pauses, lost, and her breath hitches, finger twitching on the case of her quinque. “I am Sasaki Haise.”

She breathes out, as if she has the right to be relieved. “That’s right. You’re Sasaki Haise.” The lie tastes sour in her mouth, but she’s gotten used to that bitter flavor lately. She welcomes it.

 

* * *

 

“He’s starting to remember.” It’s not a question.

She doesn’t meet Arima’s eyes, choosing to stare at the wall behind him instead, as she says, “He wants answers. And by searching for them, well. It won’t be long now.”

His face is blank, as always, but there is something underneath it all that is almost like regret, if men like him can feel such an emotion. “You know what you have to do?”

She exhales. Sharply. “Yes.”

It’s her duty. It should be easy. But knowing something and being eager to do it are two very different things.

 

* * *

 

“Mado-san,” he says, cheerfully, almost, as if she isn’t poised to kill him. “Come to put me down like a rabid dog?”

She gazes at the floor, watching him from the peripheral, because if she doesn’t she will waver. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

He smiles ruefully. “But it does, doesn’t it? I need to know who I am, and the CCG can’t let that happen. Conflicts of interest aren’t prime breeding ground for cooperation, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” she says–and that's a bit of a lie there, because a part of her is rejoicing at being able to finally engage in this act of catharsis, but it's the thought that counts anyway–and then swings Amatsu at his head. It’s a nice attack, she has to say: weight balanced, angle flawless.

His kagune intercepts it, pushing back against her, and there it is, the irrefutable truth she’s been avoiding ever since that day in the damn graveyard.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, but that's a lie, isn't it? The proof is in his left eye, colored black.

He already has, anyway.

She catches the edge of his torso, drawing blood before he twists away. She swings at him again, and he ducks, narrowly avoiding being sliced. His first wound is healing already. He could probably overpower her, if he tried.

But he’s not trying.

She ignores that thought, and swings again.

“Please,” he dodges again, “There are people waiting for me. And I need to find them.”

Indignation courses through her. He really has no right to ask anything of her, and who the hell is he to think that he does? She swings; he blocks. Again, and again and again.

He steps back, out of range, and gives her a look like he's steeling himself for something. “You should know better than anyone what it feels like to wait for someone.”

His words barrel into her, and she takes a step backwards. Another gap between them. “You have no right to say that.” She wishes she hadn't spoken, because he latches onto her words like they're a lifeline, and maybe they are.

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

She tries to muster up the anger to deny it, but comes up with nothing. It’s strange, because usually she’s not this empty inside, despite what others would say of her disposition.

She hates him.

Well.

She wishes she could hate him.

The moments tick by, and her lack of a response gets heavier with each one. “Mado-san?” he asks, tentatively. There it is, that careful tone she hears from everyone.

“Go,” she tells him, lowering her quinque.

He hesitates. Why does he hesitate? “I–”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I hope we can meet again one day. Not as a ghoul, and not as an investigator. As people.”

She thinks she’d like that, maybe; the words fail her, so she nods instead as he flees past her, a brief dip of the head like an echo of the bow he first gave her in the graveyard.

She never sees Sasaki Haise again; Kaneki Ken is a different story.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okey doke so as of right now this is a oneshot but lately, as I've been heavily revising it, I've gotten the itch to write more for it. not sure how big it'll be, but keep an eye out for it!
> 
> fun fact: I purposely referred to Sasaki/Kaneki/Haiseki as "he" throughout the whole fic (minus people directly addressing him). This was partly because I couldn't think of what to call him exactly, and also, I couldn't think of what Akira would think to call him. So, in the end, I've attributed his lack of a name to a manifestation of Akira's own uncertainty of who he is.
> 
> also, some people have been asking me if I ship Akira/Haise, and the truth is, I don't. I love their dynamic, how they're two people with a complicated relationship, whose actions have hurt each other, but neither of them are aware or able to mention it. So I love their relationship, but I don't see it as anything more than platonic. Feel free to see this as shippy as you’d like, though.
> 
> my tumblr is merrykirishimas, so feel free to hit me up there or at my ask.fm (renjutori) with questions about tg or my fics or anything, honestly. like. ask me about anything. rice. kpop. whatever.
> 
> actually. please hit up my ask.fm I am a sad and lonely user who has only ever answered the site generated questions except for like… one that I got from a real person. I crave that human interaction!!


	2. (:re)construct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her first tip-off should have been the damn coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm I don't think this is long enough to be a chapter of it's own, but I felt like it was an independent thing, so here you go. Not sure how many other chapters this'll have, but we'll see~~~ I think I’ll just update it whenever I get the urge to write more for it lmao
> 
> I honestly have no idea where this takes place chronologically in :re, I'm so behind on the manga.... I mean, technically this is au so... let's say for the sake of convenience, that Sasaki remembered tidbits at the auction from seeing/talking to hinami and that's what caused the events of last chapter. The auction actually hadn't happened yet in :re when I wrote this (I think only chapter 10 was out honestly), so I'm really pulling stuff out of my ass here to make the canon timeline work. We'll see how it goes. I think I'll end up just halfway following certain events and blatantly ignoring others!
> 
> Again, I'm behind in the manga and probably won't be able to catch up until June, so certain canon events will be blown to smithereens because a. I may not be aware of them and b. I just want Ishida's poor children to be happy, so expect some characters who are not dead to turn up alive and trauma free! But also expect a few elements to stay...
> 
> This chapter takes place a little before and a little after the previous chapter's last scene AND it features another Hirako appearance because I love him and must find a way to squeeze him into every tg fic I write

 

* * *

_before._

* * *

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Akira says. She shifts her legs an inch to the right, avoiding the blooming puddle of coffee that threatens to stain her shoes.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, and sets the cup upright from where he dropped it in the middle of drinking from it. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“I said, don’t worry about it. Don’t apologize.”

He doesn’t respond, because he’s too busy feverishly pulling napkins from the dispenser to pile them over the spill on the table, and now he’s _underneath_ the table plastering the napkins all over the floor with the fervor of a battlefield medic, like he’s bandaging a gushing wound, and then he’s sitting up again, wildly reaching for the dispenser.

It’s amusing in its own way. But also concerning, because she’s never seen him get like this before, all worked up and apologetic to the point of redundancy. She grabs his wrist. “Leave it alone. What did that napkin dispenser do to deserve that level of abuse?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, this time whispering. His hand is shaking beneath her fingers, pulse beating wildly. For a moment, she swears there are tears in his eyes.

“I’m going to pretend that you’re apologizing to the napkins, and not me.”

There’s no response. Interesting.

She sighs.

“What is it? Was your coffee so terrible you felt the urge to fling it at the wall but didn’t have enough momentum? It’s obviously not tomorrow. You’re never nervous before operations.”

“I am, just not about the operation itself. Only the paperwork,” he quips back and smiles.

(Or tries to, anyway. It’s a mediocre effort, and anyone with a basic working knowledge of how he ticks can see that.)

“Don’t bullshit me.”

It’s his turn, now, to sigh. “I just… never mind. It’s nothing.”

Well, alright. She’ll take that as code for “I don’t want to talk about it”.

“Fine. But do me a favor: whatever it is, don’t internalize it.” She reaches down to collect the sopping pile of napkins from the floor and deposits them on her empty plate. “We have an operation tomorrow, and I don’t want you dying on me because you’re too absorbed in your emotional turmoil to notice the kagune that’s seconds away from decapitating you.”

He swirls the meager amount of coffee left in his cup around and looks into it, as if he’ll find crystal ball answers in the dregs if he stares hard enough. “Yeah. Noted.”

Sternly, she pokes his arm. “I’m serious. What would the CCG do without Rank 1 Investigator Sasaki Haise?”

If she wasn’t so absorbed in picking up the napkins from the table, she would have seen him flinch. She would have seen him look at her over the frames of his glasses, still tilting his cup from side to side, with an unreadable expression.

She does, however, hear him.

“What, indeed?” he asks.

The white of the napkins is stained brown, brackish liquid seeping out of them to merge with the remains of her lunch.

 

* * *

  _during._

* * *

 

Thinking back on it later, after Arima shows her the farewell note they found in his vacated room, it’s so glaringly obvious.

Maybe she was tired that day, and maybe that’s how she missed all the tiny flags that should have set off the alarms in her head.

Or maybe she just didn’t want to notice them, like how she doesn’t want to notice that he’s taken little with him, leaving most of his possessions behind the same way he’s left all of his former comrades.

Either way, the day after the Auction Raid, Hirako tells her that Arima is looking for her. Either way, she leaves the debriefing with a growing sense of dread. Either way, she lets Sasaki Haise go in the end, in all ways.

(And, either way, she thinks she’s losing her touch.)

 

* * *

_after._

* * *

 

Hirako finds her only minutes after she lets him escape. If he notices something is off, he doesn’t say anything. Not immediately, anyway.

“Was he here?” His grip on his quinque is firm, fingers clenched, but not enough so that his knuckles are white with tension.

Akira looks at him directly with what she hopes is a sincere expression, because this is the part where she needs to start lying through her teeth. “I tracked him through surveillance footage from across the street,” she says, “but he was gone when I got here.”

It’s not an exact lie, anyway; ever since the Auction, she suspects, Sasaki Haise has been long gone. And even if it is one, well: she’s a damn good liar by now. Her father would be proud.

All the same, Hirako sees right through her, because It’s always the quiet ones who are the most dangerous. “Was he?” he asks, “Or did you let him go?”

“I think we both know the answer to that, or you wouldn’t be asking.” She flexes her fingers around Amatsu’s hilt. Keeps her eyes fixed on him, watching for any movement.

“Do you think that was the right thing to do?” He seems completely genuine in his curiosity, and she wonders if it’s an attempt to throw her off base.

There’s no going back now. “Yes.”

She braces for an attack.

“Then that’s all that matters.” And then: he turns away, grip on his quinque loosened. “Other investigators will be here soon. I won’t say anything.”

She remains tense for a minute, waiting for him to drop the facade. When he doesn’t, she relaxes. “Why?”

Something flickers behind his perpetually blank expression. “You’re not the only one, you know, who’s felt pity for a ghoul before.”

“We’re a sorry group, then. Can’t even do our jobs correctly.”

“I guess not.”

Voices sound from outside the building. “We’ll talk later,” she says.

He nods.

As it so happens, they never get the chance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll just leave you guys with that nice cliffhanger, you’re very welcome :))))))
> 
> And of course I managed to slip in some hints of takekaya because I’m a massive hoe for that ship, platonic or not; that’s entirely your decision!
> 
> Expect another update… sometime. When my school life is not crazy and packed with homework, and maybe not even until ap exams are done (mid-May)? Sorry lovelies but this is the year that determines my future pretty much lmaooooo (that’s the sound of me making incomprehensible screeching noises because my mind has snapped from the stress probably)


End file.
